I get real bacchanalias in spring time
Come here with your pretty mouth
If i break the dawn with drink
And spill my sashay onto your
Heh heh table
Is not my fault I’m
A French soldier coming home
Talk to me of alabaster
And dough
Dig your sweaty palms into a batch of the stuff
I like your sweat to make my bread salty
there’s a dormant winter version of me
Screaming like please
Don’t penetrate
The ether with that
Fucking wand of yours
I’m over here, nipples up
Carving the faces of gods
With my milker balking
Saying sweetie you’ll be ok until June
Sit tight
I’m gonna stretch that pussy, mind, pen,
You’ll hate yourself
And ask me to stop so many times
But no one brings you
Roof tops and dread like i do.
Don’t be a fool,
You’ve missed the buds and sweat
And rain,
I’ve missed your pheromones seeping out to
Olfactory failures
Let those caves collapse
We’re not hiding, no
I’m only taking everyone out
For a dance.


El carrito azul

Alguien atreverse a enseñarme
Algo más precioso
Que el sol derramando sangre en la madrugada
Sobre tu carrito de mierda
En la última gasolinera de la pista

Estira tu mirada a los montes
Y la finca de paja
Y la carretera hecha de acerolas negras
En el silencio de los dormidos
En el abrazo flojo del cielo sonrojado
Y atrévete a someter en mi presencia
La alternativa de amor divino cuando se llena el tanque

Tu oído sea pendiente
Al gallo que canta tres veces.
Ahora que lo diminutivo ha pasado con fuerza de crayola
Entre su vehículo con la calma de un
Desconocido sofisticado
En rumba al portal que esconde los fugados

Acordando que el sol aun así es estrella

The Joke and Other Patrons

The problem with loving
the freest thing in the world
Is that anything that resembles stationary love spooks the hell out of him
You can spoil him point blank
With stare booze lips and books
But when he starts feeling comfy
He’s got to
Got to go
Live in the bones of
the white picket fence
Thinking his hut is something orginale
Ironic and whimsical
Whimsical like the Tower of Babel
Thumb, divine, van, personal spaceship

The problem with loving the freest thing
Is that he’s not so free
His price is a couple of synapses misfiring
A few toothless folk giving him to drink
A few zippity zoos right up the nose or to smoke
He loves Jesus. He does.
A zoom! Splat!
There’s a portal to the clearest religious psychosis I’ve ever seen.

He resents me because i have a job
It’s just not as free as being homeless.

The problem with loving the freest thing
Is that he’s shackled to the joke
And crawling for the grin
He’s pampering the girl
Swimming from the furl
Looking for a gaze azure
As his
Or the dawn sky
Why he’s free yea free
Dawn yea dawn
Yea booze yea zippity zoom
Yea black void
Yea god yea Jesus
Yea infinite resignation
Yea yea black black void you’re funny you make this loco laugh

The problem with loving the freest thing in the world
Is that he’s lying on a pasture
Sacrificial and exhausted
It’s that he’s not so free
And his diatribe
Is chained to his teeth
Pulling corners making smile lines
In the pools
Of my murky eyes.

Ascent Called Soused

You spritzed
The new scent
Called soused
On your inner wrists
And wrote with blood
That you missed
When poured just right
Over rocks
And your locks
Took a back seat
To your breath
And the hilt
Of your chest
Was perspiring
Like that glass
Half full
Two fingers
Of poison
Ready for consumption

On your wrists
Were the names
Of old lovers
And the oak
Of where foreheads rested
When the drink
Took over
And the fella
With a halo of glass
And a handkerchief
Told you that’s enough
And called you a cab

You are watching the oak
Like a well oiled pond
To skip rocks across
And float
With lily pads for wings
A straw for breath underwater
A dryness that hits
In the morning
When your nude flesh
Is in warm goosebumps
An arm you hardly


Am i of?
Am i the wrath or the giggle
Of a drunkard
Of a drunk yard, the crunch
Of a pile of autumn

Am i the soft rumble
Of a volcano
Sobering calm
Molten center

Thirst thirst
Am i of

Am i of oil or anise
Or the skid of
My knees
Are these mine are these yours
Is my soul of
Or off?

Am i me when i scream
In the scream do i hurt
Do i hurt the of me
Off me
In the dirt

Am i of
Am i of thought
I thought therefore I’ve been
Of the earth
I’m not of

Am i me when i sing
And i me when i love
Am i off when i sleep
Do i dream of

Young men will have dreams

Am i of dance when
Skin moves

Hold up hold up

I have sculpted the space
I have scooched the atom neath
Each hand gesture
Kissed the atom of oxygen
With each of me that stays close to me

Everything i am of
Has a center of gravity
Who put it there?
Am i of gravity and grace?
Who put it there?!

When the sound comes out
Of mouth
Am i scream am i mouth?

Am i list
Am i of stone
Am i of clay
Am i of foam

When i am drunk
Hollering at you
Asking to die
What part of me is the drink
Which is the holler
Which is the death for you to give

When i am calm
Who is the soother
What part is motion
What part is less

When i love am i of love
When i am blind am i of dark
Am i of light-shows beyond the seers
Am i of mud and spit
Am i legion

When i am silent
Am i of silence
When i am silent
Who do you say i am?

I went to the store today
For the ever versatile
Orbit butter
It upsets the vegans
But they have their own replacement
Sea foam butter
No bones no masters
No capillaries
Some crushed up stars
No Co2
In short, not as tasty
But they make do

Anyway the damn thing was on sale
So I stocked up
Fearing the hurricane and recession
It took to make this
Banquet staple
Are sure to run dry.

Scarcity is the mother of
Ivory jewels
Heads on walls
Fur coats
And gummy worms

Knowing full well the typhoon and novas it took
To bottle this delectable concoction
Are perishable
Unlike the thing itself
I researched how quickly
Child labor is going out of style
And if there’s a machine that can replicate the tiny brown hands that make this
Cus I’ll be damned if I never have another slice of toast
Spread with orbit butter.

I read the label
Running my fingers gingerly
Neath each word
“Made in Jupiter”
The anus of the Milky Way
Or nipple…
I gotta consult the oracle later
To be sure

The real issue here is that the power is out
It’s been out for weeks
And there’s no way to do my make up in
This state.
I can wake up with the birds and catch that sunrise, but the stuff is deceiving
Makes me look like a glistening river of pink hues
But by high noon
The pond scum is evident
Craters open wide for pollution to sink in
No matter
They call this heroin chic on instaglam.

my holobasket is now overflowing with
The avatars that I’ll trade in for the real stuff when I walk up to the sex bots and give them 40 rupees.

I go up there
Winking my glitter lashbombs
At the men of steel
Good morning captain America
As you can see I’ve purchased all your orbit butter
Do click tone me when you’ve got more

Madam, these are the last of the orbit butter
The president has banned child labor
And we’ve run all out of stars.

Damnit Roggerglitz
I’ve been coming here
12 green earth years
And you’re telling me
The butter churners grew a conscience
Say it ain’t so.

Fraid it is darling Moonglitz

But bot, we still have caviar do we not?

Yes madam.
We have not yet determined if fish have feelings
And the vegans don’t seem to mind.

Very well
I’ll make my own orbit butter
With the offspring coming in fall.

Good call! By George I’ll take you up on a batch.
I don’t consume anything but data
My clients, however, like a little treat
When I’m sucking their-

That’s enough Rogerglitz!
Don’t you have the good sense to keep your part time gig quiet?

Binge Crying

I promise this is not about you
I’m genetically dissatisfied
It’s how beauty becomes precious
This is mostly not about you
It’s me staring at the holy void
And asking for seconds
It’s gulping up a super nova
And expecting a tan
With an explosion of freckles to match
I promise you have little to no effect in my suffering
You’re only the new expression
You’re only another version
Another avenue to be bored at beauty
Annoyed at anything that doesn’t live up to the sigh
Through this tired filter
It’s a groan
We both know discontent is en Vogue
Sashay through life
Like a dirty rag drying in the wind
Harp player you are a saint
Like me like all of us
Sad meandering saints
My god didn’t promise joy
They promised open eyes and heart break
And a mother to scoop you up and walk you though the valley of bones
There are no Illusions of mirth
In my holy void
Float along with me above
The kelp.
Let those green fingers tickle your
Sheol is not sorrow
It’s inertia and Netflix